


Your Courage in Your Hands

by sinuous_curve



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, washing/cleaning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s a moment when Clint is elbows deep in A.I.M created mutant slime monster where has to wonder what happened to dealing with the threats that no one else could? He’s fairly certain he remembers that being in the recruiting pitch, but he’s also got slime in orifices he didn’t know he had, so. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Courage in Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Written at the behest of the ever lovely ignipes. Unbeta'd.

There’s a moment when Clint is elbows deep in A.I.M created mutant slime monster (he’s positive they have another, more impressively scientific name, but their sole purpose seems to be exuding irrational quantities of goo and thus, slime monsters) where has to wonder what happened to dealing with the threats that no one else could? He’s fairly certain he remembers that being in recruiting pitch, but he’s also got slime in orifices he didn’t know he had, so.

Because they’re the Avengers and not the NYPD they do, of course, handle it all in the span of an afternoon that has even Thor looking like he’s wondering why he decided to leave Asgard where Clint is willing to put money there’s not thigh high _mutant slime monsters_ running around, wreaking havoc. Though it’s Natasha who looks at Fury, her hair glued to her head, and says, “What was the actual fucking point of that?”

Fury, who watched the whole debacle from the slime-free deck of the helicarrier, smirks, and says, “Who are we to question the motives of A.I.M? Good work, team.”

It’s still light outside when they get back to the tower -- since Fury oh so generously allowed that the debrief for such a minor event could wait until tomorrow -- and Clint peels off his uniform standing in the middle of his bathroom, frowning with distaste. The slime’s texture has begun to turn tacky and gummy as it dries out and despite the cursory rinse down he managed in a helicarrier bathroom, he’s still oozing in a variety of uncomfortable places.

He’s down to his pants when the soft chime announcing that a teammate wants access sounds. “Who is it, Jarvis?” he asks, wondering what the odds are that he’s not just going to have to burn the current iteration of his uniform and accept that Tony’s inevitable upgrades and modifications before he gets the next version.

“Captain Rogers, Agent Barton,” Jarvis says. “Shall I let him in?”

“Yeah, might as well,” Clint says, rolling his eyes. He sits on the toilet to start undoing his boots, groaning softly at the wet sound that comes from pulling his feet free. When the door opens, he calls, “You know considering you sleep over ninety percent of the time, you don’t have to knock anymore. Seriously, this is the point when I’d get you a copy of my key if we didn’t _live in the same building_.”

“It’s, well. Polite,” Steve says, and Clint looks up to him standing in the bathroom doorway in his uniform pants and darker blue undershirt, barefoot and looking like he went overboard with the brylcreem in his hair.

Clint snorts. “You’re like the lovechild of Mister Rogers and Miss Manners.”

Steve’s cheeks flood with a little bit of pink, but he’s getting better about that. Clint’s positive that they had teasing in the 1940s, he’s just settled on guessing Steve wasn’t on the receiving end of a lot of _good natured_ ribbing until he was suddenly the biggest guy on the block. Or in the unit, as the case was.

“I don’t know who Mister Rogers is,” he says, starting to rake his fingers through his hair and wincing.

“He was the best part of most of America’s childhood.” Clint tosses his boots aside and stands. “Christ, I think I actually have slime up my ass. Fuck A.I.M, seriously.”

“Me too,” Steve says, plucking at the front of his shirt. It’s splotchy from all the different places slime got past the outer layer of his uniform and bled through the undershirt to his skin. “Points for creativity, I suppose? At least we don’t have to mop up the streets.”

“Thank god for small favors,” Clint sighs, raising his arms over his head and arching his back. “I need a shower. You do, too.”

Steve nods so very pointedly nonchalantly that Clint almost laughs. “I do,” he agrees, pushing his hands against his hips slide his fingers into pockets that aren’t there. He settles for splaying his fingers over his thighs.

“Captain America,” Clint says, leaning his hip against the counter. “Did you come here looking for a little action?”

“I --” Steve blushes again, but straightens up and squares his shoulders. “Maybe,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up into one of those very faint little grins that drive Clint nuts. “I do sleep over ninety percent of the time. And I thought since we have, uh, a mutual slime problem.”

“You wash my back and I’ll wash yours?”

“Among other things,” Steve says mildly and Clint feels a pleasant little thrum of heat.

Clint rolls back the shower door with a faint rattle of glass and turns the water on nice and hot. There are days when he still has reservations about living in a place with Tony Stark’s name on the least and just about every single goddamn piece of technology woven into every inch of the house, but there are some undeniable benefits. His unconscious tendency toward ostentation, for one, which tends to translate to everything being on a slightly larger scale than normal human.

When he turns back to Steve, Steve’s down to his bleached white y-fronts with his uniform folded on the counter. Clint leers at him, half out of genuine appreciation and half for the little blushing, unamused, secretly pleased look he gets back. “For the record, next time slime monsters attack,” Clint says, shoving his pants down and kicking them to the corner. “The Fantastic Four can handle it.”

“There are only four of them,” Steve points out, stepping into the shower.

“Four of them with powers,” Clint protests, following and sliding the door shut behind him. “I think it evens out.”

“I think you underestimate your worth, and Natasha’s.”

“You just say that because we’re both naked. Turn around.”

Clint’s never particularly tended toward an appreciation of men that are bigger than him -- awareness, yes, inasmuch as it has an impact on how he approaches combat situations. (He can admit that part of the reason he got so fond of his bow is that it’s long range. No need to get up close and personal and see how big a difference even just four inches can make.)

But Steve has the peak of human potential thing going on, and there’s just _something_ about the improbable breadth of his shoulders that gets to Clint. Not that he would ever admit it, but he kind of likes that he can press his face to Steve’s spine right between his shoulder blades.

Even covered in the residue of mutant slime.

Clint snags a washcloth from the bar on the shower door and pours a healthy handful of soap into the middle. Not really knowing who -- or what -- stocking the showers in the tower is part and parcel of living there, though Clint feels better for having seen Pepper actually laugh at loud when Bruce, on tones of mounting horror, asked if that was among her duties.

He works the soap into a lather and takes a step back so he can start at the base of Steve’s skull. Clint cleans a stripe along his spine, stopping at the small of Steve’s back right above his ass. Clint has a _thing_ about Steve’s skin, how it doesn’t turn red no matter how hot Clint hikes the water temperature and how bruises don’t last. He likes how it looks with water sluicing over Steve’s shoulders and running down the columns of muscle.

“You’re supposed to be washing slime,” Steve says, turning his head so Clint can see his profile and the water dripping off the ends of his eyelashes.

“I am,” Clint says easily.

“You would have been terrible in the army.”

Clint snorts, starting in on Steve’s shoulders. The suds follow the same path as the water. Clint idly decides he’s going to do his level best to mark that path with his teeth when they get into bed. “Why do you say that?”

“Communal showers,” Steve says gravely.

“You think everybody gets this treatment?” Clint asks. “Lift your arms. Hell no. Just the ones I like.”

Steve laughs, and it goes a little breathless when Clint starts under his armpits and washes down his side. “I’m honored.”

“You damn well should be.”

The running water does the best part of the clean up job, sloughing away most of the slime neatly down the drain. Clint stretches up a little onto his toes to get behind Steve’s ears, mostly for the little chuckle it gets out of Steve, and takes another couple minutes to go over his back again, just for the hell of it. Steve hums a little at the press of the washcloth against his skin, and Clint isn’t one much for displays of affection outside a bed, but he kisses Steve’s shoulder anyway.

“Turn around,” Clint says, dropping the washcloth back on the shower door bar. Steve turns and, maybe without even thinking about it because he _does_ like the little displays of affection, settles his hands on Clint’s hips and pulls him closer. “Better?”

Steve nods. “Thank you,” he says with a grin.

“Good.” Clint runs his hands up the insides of Steve’s forearms and settles his thumbs against the pulse points at his elbows. “Now get on your knees.”

“Pardon?” Steve’s eyebrows raise up almost to hairline. His reaction falls somewhere between the incredulity that he can’t help as someone who really is a leader and a little bit of sharp-eyed want that maybe kind of likes being told what to do, just a little.

Clint swallows down a smirk. “Your hair is still fucking disgusting, and you’re too damn tall,” Clint says sweetly. “What did you think I was implying?”

“I wonder,” Steve snorts, rolling his eyes. Clint likes that they’ve reached this point, after six months not being able to stop themselves from colliding with each other no matter how hard they tried. It’s just easier, watching Steve get down onto his knees and bow his head so the water pushes his hair forward. Even soaking wet, it’s incredibly soft beneath Clint’s fingers.

He pops open the bottle shampoo and pours a more restrained dollop into his palm, then rubs his hands together to work up a lather, and pushes his fingers through Steve’s hair.

Since he is actually working to get alien slime out, it’s perhaps a little less inherently sexy than washing Steve’s hair would usually be, but that’s okay. The solid shape of Steve’s skull beneath Clint’s hands in the same -- at this point, Clint’s fairly sure he could tell Steve just from brushing his fingers over the bone from the crown of his head to the top of his spine.

Clint digs his fingers into Steve’s skin and gets a little dip of Steve’s shoulders in return, and a soft sighed sound that almost disappears beneath the rush of the water over them. It’d take a lot longer if Steve’s hair were as long as Natasha’s, or even Bruce’s, but Steve keeps his cut almost military short and soon Clint’s got all the slime out. He’s just touching Steve because he wants to.

“That feels good,” Steve says, words distorted slightly from the water funneling down toward his chin.

Clint grins. “You know what they say about magic fingers. Okay, you’re clean, soldier.”

Steve lifts his head, and Clint watches the water run over his eyes and cheeks and nose and chin. Drops fall from the ends of his eyelashes and his nose, and Steve grins as he pushes his hair away from his face and looks up at Clint. “Now you,” he says.

Clint laughs. “See, this is why I like you.”


End file.
